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sunshine-on-marz · 1 year

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This is a silly little fic inspired by this idea on Twitter from the lovley @/simpingboisinc, they have AMAZING sbi related ideas/ aus and you’re legally obligated to go check them out after this, cuz they are so cool and talented and was kind enough to let me write this! I hope I do their amazing idea justice

Saving the world one lesson at a time

An AU in which Technoblade is a hero and English teacher and Tommy and y/n are his sidekicks and students

You were leaving class hand in hand with your best friend Tommy, practically skipping down the halls. You’d just left professor techno’s class, aka your favorite class of the day. “Tommy, how excited are you for practice tonight?” Tonight you and Tom are going to work, or going to help the Blade. The Blade, a well known super hero, and you two where his side kicks! While saving the city wasn’t technically a practice, you obviously couldn’t say ‘how excited are you to go fight crime?!’ so practice will have to suffice. “Just as excited as always!” The blonde responded.

Techno found it hilarious that the two of you didn’t put together that your pink haired monotone teacher was also your pink haired monotone mentor. “Hey you two” the hero said as you and Tommy stumbled out of base while attempting to correct all of the mistakes you’d both made in your haste to get on your uniforms. “Hi!” The two of you shouted in unison. Techno sighed and walked over to Tommy, removing one of his curls from his latex mask. “You’re a mess kid” he groaned as Tommy fell on his face while trying to fix his boot. Tommy laughed and hopped back up, “I know! But I’m the sexiest mess this world has ever seen!” He said “I’m right here!” You gasped, faking insult. “Kids, your both a 5 at best, now c’mon” the taller man joked and the both of you ran towards the bases gate.

—

“Blade!” You yelled as one of the many criminals you’d been fighting pinned you against a wall. The eldest immediately was next to the crook and pushed him off of you. “Y/n are you alright!?” Tommy shouted to you while still fighting the hoard, “yep!” You responded before joining him in the fight. Techno did most of the heavy lifting, but he was beyond proud of the both of you. Your trio walked back to the base where you grabbed your things, you and Tommy changing back into normal cloths and letting your mentor clean your wounds. “Thank you Blade” you said as he finished wrapping your arm up from where it had been slammed against the sharp brick wall. “Anytime kid, now” he stood up, wiping his hands on his pants “you both have homework, go home”. You and Tommy starred at him. “HOW THE FUCK DO YOU ALWAYS KNOW WHEN WE HAVE HOMEWORK?!” Tommy yelled “YEA” you backed up the boy. “I just do. Now shoo” you and Tommy walked out while making faces that looked like you’d just bit a lemon at the man who you’d both deemed physic.

The next day you and Tommy rushed into Mr.Techno’s class, and excitedly told him about how cool the Blade had looked the night before, claiming that you’d watched him on the news. The professor just smiled and listened, you two were the best part of his day.

—————

Lol techno may or may not be based on Ash and y/n and Tommy may or may not be based on me and Lilly

@art3m1s-adelia @lillylvjy

@kit-is-a-weeb @z0vamp @m0thza @jadeissues @romancingdaffodils

#dsmp #dsmpblr #dsmp x reader #dsmp x gender neutral reader #writing #tommyinnit #tommyinnit x reader #techoblade #technoblade x reader #bedrock duo #dsmp au

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painless-innit-colourful · 1 year

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Orpheus

(3k words, tw for canon-compliant suicide and mild self-harm, read it below or on my ao3)

Throughout his life, Wilbur Soot was a musician. In death, Wilbur Soot was a musician. In what came after...(Basically, if c!Wilbur had written all of Wilbur Soot's music in Dream SMP canon, how, and when.)

Full fic below :))

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He’d always been a musician.

His dad’s best friend used to call him Orpheus. He’d be about to leave, standing in the door frame and he’d call, “Orpheus?” down the hallway. Wilbur would shake his head and cross his arms and answer, “Yes?” “Don’t look back.”

He’d taught him confidence: how to hold his head up, how to keep his voice steady talking to a crowd and, most importantly, how to hold his own with someone that wanted to see him burn. Some lessons less applicable to his future plans, but Technoblade thought it important he knew these things. Even for a budding songwriter, pockets lined with scraps of paper shrouded in scrawled lyrics and chord structures.

“Regardless of whether they’re laughing at your poems or crying at your songs, you keep your eyes on the crowd. It’s a dangerous world out there; I don’t want to see Phil grieving you.” “Relax, Blade,” His guitar was laying precariously in his lap as he leant back, arms behind his head. “I’m hardly going far. I’m not going to start any trouble.” Techno’s eyes seemed to glint, the flames of the fire reflected in his irises as he watched Wilbur across the room. A log crackled and tumbled into the hearth with a beat that could fit cleanly in a two-four bar.

“Well, don’t let anyone convince you you’re any more or less than what you are.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You know yourself better than anyone: your strengths, your weaknesses, what drives you to keep writing and singing. If anyone tries to make a myth or a mess of you-” “‘Know thyself, know thy enemy,’ right?” His eyes glinted back, the righteous fire of oats unsown, youthful energy and boldness. Techno resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “You can hold your own, we both know that. Don’t let anyone convince you you can’t.” He paused, “Don’t turn around.”

Wilbur blew a long breath between his teeth, “If I write you a ballad, will you stop telling me that.” Techno just laughed.

Yes, he was always a musician, leaving home with his guitar hefted over his shoulders. Waving at his father and his friend. Techno made the ‘turn around’ sign as he left.

Open mic nights and tavern gigs didn’t satisfy the itch, the hunger inside to create, to share, to make something people would belt at the tops of their lungs long after the alcohol ran dry and the torches burnt low. In the end, it wasn’t even his melody. That part vexed him, partially - his biggest hit and it wasn’t his melody - but he hushed the musician inside and tucked his guitar lovingly into his enderchest, to be brought out on special occasions or when Tommy looked a little low.

Playing by the light of a campfire, within the walls of a nation he built, fought and died for, ran, was all he wanted to do. When the volume of paperwork was insurmountable, when the treaties didn’t write themselves, when he spent countless nights gripping a tear-stained pillow, listening to Tommy and Tubbo staying up half the night in the next room, praying he could keep them safe - those notes, those words were his sanctuary. People spoke of how it made him a down-to-earth ruler; the President sat among his people, leading them in a soft singalong of the anthem, but he didn’t do it for optics. He’s a poet, not a politician (how on earth did this happen) and it felt good to retreat behind his guitar for a while. It gave him perspective: how far he’d come, how much further he could still go. This was so much bigger than a kid writing lyrics by the campfire in the garden. The special place they sang of, he made that happen. Playing by the fire, he imagined the future: retired, moved on from a life of public service, but still playing. Resting under his redwood trees, resolutely strumming that old guitar, safe in the nation he made.

It’s a shame it didn’t last. He remained a musician, but there would be no playing with aged hands within the black and yellow walls.

His hands were cold. He had always strummed with his fingers before, but after moving into that ravine, he started using a pick. His melodies sloped into sharps and flats, shaking fingers unable to find the right fret.

“Ridiculous, aren’t I?” Techno stopped walking, glancing down at the skeletal figure of Wilbur, swamped in a trenchcoat and curled around the guitar Phil bought him for his sixteenth birthday. “All that time in L’Manberg, I said I wished I had more time to write and practice, now I’ve got it and I can’t even be happy with that!” “Well, they do say tragedy makes good art.” “Mmm,” Wilbur gazed up at the ceiling of their cavern home, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve found it hard to know what to write about. All this time I was saving up ideas and now I have all this time and nothing- nothing’s working.” “Keep… Yeah, keep working at it. You gotta persevere with it, or something.” “Sweat your guts out,” Wilbur gave him a forced grin. “You got it, Blade.”

Techno didn’t hear it himself - he had been at his secret base at the time, putting together experimental weapons and mostly trying to not blow himself up in close quarters. He heard what it had been, though, the next time he went to Pogtopia and Tommy Innit ran up to him.

“You didn’t put Wilbur up to this shit, did you?” “Tommy, what are you talking about. I haven’t been here in two days.” Tommy took the deepest breath known to man, dragging his fingers through his hair and finding a number of tangles on the way. “Wilbur’s- Wilbur’s gone a bit… A bit morbid, in his song-writing lately.” He laughed nervously. “I thought the singing about stalking government officials and comparing his heart to a bleeding - literally bleeding - keyboard, was weird, but now he’s going on about- about blowing up L’Manberg-” “Oh really?” “Yeah! It was this creepy two-chord tune about burning the place to the ground and he was playing it over and over for hours-”

He finally heard it himself a few days later, tucked between the usual laments on past lovers and agonising teenage angst - two chords, over and over, echoing through the cavern, Wilbur’s voice reverberating after it like the melody and accompaniment were chasing each other the length of the ravine. He listened to the words - the ones he could make out - and heard the smile in Wilbur’s voice as he bastardised the lyrics of his own nation’s national anthem. That was brilliant for Techno’s plans, but, still.

He had a feeling the musician hadn’t listened to him.

“How does the story end?” Wilbur had been fourteen when they’d met and every bit the child his father had made him out to be. Curious, reckless, idealistic, a dreamer, an intellectual and a poet. Techno saw trouble coming down the tracks before anyone else did. But not quite like this.

“Well, the doubts in his mind grew to be overwhelming. Orpheus looked back and Eurydice was there. He met her eyes… and she disappeared.” He watched Wilbur form a chord on the neck of the battered guitar they’d found abandoned in the woods with clawed fingers. “...Then what?” “That’s it. That’s the end.” Wilbur looked up, “What happened to Orpheus after?” Techno thought for a moment before he spoke, “Well, like most Greek myths, there are a few versions. Most of them agree that he walked the earth lamenting his tragedy, singing about it. His songs were so full of sorrow they made mothers miscarry and willow trees bow their boughs - that’s where they got weeping willows. After that… I think the general consensus was people got so sick of him making them all sad that a group of them tore him apart.” “Just- Just like that?” “Yeah. Just like that.”

Wilbur, even in the pit of his breakdown, spoke of a symphony. Once a musician, always a musician, it seemed. L’Manberg was his great, “unfinished” symphony, he said. He rambled on and on to Techno and Tommy and cave walls about movements and variations, weaving notes between the peaks and troughs of the story.

“The explosions will be like percussion, finishing the final movement - which is ironic of course, because it’s unfinished, intentionally so. The silence after-” He closed his eyes and stilled, imagining it, a smile growing. “Yes. I’d like to hear the silence after. That’s how it’s meant to end.” He turned, trenchcoat flying out, to face Techno again. “Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Ninth Symphony?”

He had been standing at the back of the crowd, Dream whispering nonsense in his ear, trying to rile him up. Truth was, he already knew exactly what he was going to say. He’s an orator. But as the hopeful L’Manbergian’s hung on Tubbo’s every word, he instead watched the figure near the front that had just stepped down from the stage. He observed the conflicted expression on Wilbur’s face. He’d just witnessed the paradox - backing Techno’s anarchy, denouncing the government and rejecting the presidency in the same breath he used to smile at his boys and hand power to Tubbo.

He watched the doubt creep in. And Wilbur looked back, past Techno, eyes glazed over, towards the hill where he knew the button room to be.

And L’Manberg disappeared.

The guitar came and went repeatedly. He wasn’t even sure how he had it sometimes. It was better not to think. Because thinking meant remembering. Just play. Just let your shaking hands find the right frets in the dark while you stare at the insides of your eyelids because if he had to look at the damn advertisements in the train stations satirising his downfall one more time he would hurl the guitar onto the tracks again, and who knew how he even got the damn things in the first place

Wilbur used to hate barre chords with a burning passion. Just buy a fucking capo. Who even has an index finger that strong anyway. Ghostbur, however, loved them. Finally, for the first time since he was like sixteen, he felt like he was writing melodies that made sense. They just flowed out of him like the water running under the L’Manberg highways. Like someone else had written them, and they were songs he’d always known. He finally felt like a musician again. Phil, his father, sat nearby, listening to him play in the November evening air. The sky was overcast, but the lanterns (his lanterns!) shone overhead like stars, lighting up the quiet marketplace.

“You used to play like that when you were little,” Phil said softly as he played on. “The brighter chords and stuff.” “Mm,” It made Ghostbur glow, sharing his music with his father again. He couldn’t understand why Alivebur had wanted to hide his lyrics from him. “Play the one about- walking boots? Again.” “Hiking boots,” he said with a light laugh. “Yeah, that one.”

They wrote as a duo, subconsciously: like a pair of writers in a band wrestling for creative control while simultaneously stealing all of each other’s ideas. Ghostbur would argue the ‘hiking boots’ song was about his son. Wilbur shouted back: it was about Sally, it was about shattered families, yes, it was about Fundy but not in the way you bloody think! Ghostbur smiled and played the songs until his fingers would’ve bled, were they corporeal. Wilbur screamed at the walls of the station until his voice was completely gone, beating at the walls with his fists, bloodying his hands until they could no longer hold the neck of his guitar.

Gradually, his hands healed. He tossed the guitar away in his rages so he didn’t smash it against the tube station wall (though he had tried it a few times and found it incredibly cathartic). In his infinite patience, waiting in the dark for salvation that would never come, he played better music than ever before. He made a makeshift capo from a strip of fabric ripped from his shirt and a piece of a shattered sign and played weeping melodies in wonky thirds and fourths. Music was his salvation: this time from utter destructive madness. More than once he bit at the skin of his fingers ‘till they bled, then used them to write chord progressions on the wall in rusty blueish-brown. He hummed the harmony line to his melodies as he played them and wished for another instrument, a way to record; literally any of the things he knew he could never have in this homemade hell. The lonely busker spent a decade serenading the empty platform with his songs of brutal tragedy.

“Did you say you’d thought of a new one?” “I did, I just want to tweak my lyrics-” “You’re rewriting my words… You know you need author’s permission to do that.” Ghostbur swore the songs just popped into his head, often almost fully formed, only requiring minor tweaks. He ignored the whispers in his mind in the voice that sounded like his own. Listening to that voice hadn’t gotten Alivebur anywhere. “Originally, the bridge was about trains, but now I’m thinking that’s not very relevant to here, where there are no trains. So I- hold on… I got it.”

Wilbur just scowled as his ghost sang of “barriers on the highways”. My genius is being pilfered, he thought. He picked up his own guitar and played along.

“There’s a reason / L’Manberg puts barriers on the highways / There’s a reason / They fail…”

In Limbo, there was very little melodic sound. Sure, there were trains rattling through every few hours, the wind whistling in the tunnels, and he could always shout ‘till his echo bounced out of earshot, but there wasn’t a lot other than that to be heard. His guitar had been the one thing that kept him from going truly ‘round the bend.

Groaning, screeching, screaming, wailing, scratching, shrieking: it was technically the most horrible noise Wilbur had ever heard in either of his lives. Yet, he loved it. In the blur of the train journey back Wilbur wasn’t sure of much. He heard the ear-splitting screeching, saw the weeping ghost, threw up out of one of the train windows and screamed along to the great noise, harmonising with it the best he could until they burst from the tunnel, light streaming through the windows, so bright Wilbur thought he was dying again.

Several days later, Wilbur was still singing. Sopping wet from the rain, one drink deep in a rowdy tavern where the whole world was warm and beautiful. Dimly, he was aware some of the pub patrons were giving him stern looks, but he was too deeply in love with life to even fathom that he could leave her behind again. No, he was singing, he was happy- no, ecstatic, to be alive, and emboldened by this latest turn of good fortune. He was a musician, and though he hadn’t found his old guitar again yet, he wasn’t going to be discouraged. As if it were Fortune herself daring him, a man appeared by the bar with an instrument strapped to his back.

“Evening, good sir. I couldn’t help-” The stranger in the trenchcoat with the immovable grin did not wait for him to turn around before launching into some half-prepared spiel. “-but notice the bass on your back. Do you play?” “I do, I do.” “Well?” “Yes, I would say well.” Ash had not been expecting to be quizzed on his musical ability that night, but it was a frequent-enough occurrence that he wasn’t phased. Until- “That’s wonderful. Do you have a job.” “I- Yes. I work here, actually. It’s my night off today.” “That’s fantastic. Quit your job.” The stranger was either absolutely plastered or a complete maniac. He allowed him the benefit of the doubt, “Why?”

The stranger flipped a strand of wet hair out of his eyes, “Join my band. I’ve got a drummer and a guitarist. And I sing. I’ve already written some songs, they- the others liked them,” He stood a little taller. “I think you’ll find us a worthwhile endeavour.” Despite the fact this entire encounter was completely ridiculous, Ash was inclined to keep following the thread. “What kind of songs do you write?” “Oh, pretty standard stuff,” He laughed, practically glowing. “Being jealous of your ex’s new man, being afraid of the future, making fun of past presidents. That sort of material.” Ash quirked an eyebrow, “Which past presidents would those be?” The stranger, Soot, grinned, “Any of them. All of them.”

Soot stuck a hand out, “What’s your name?” They shook, “Ash. Yours?” A sly smile, “You already know it.”

“Just one more thing, Ash.” Soot’s eyes were more tired now, darting up from the comm name and number he was scrawling on a napkin in a sputtering red biro. “One rule. For the band. Once you’re on board, you ride it to the end. You keep your head up high and no matter what-” He finished the number, securing it with an exuberant dot, and handed it to Ash. “You don’t look back.” Ash nodded, “Sounds good to me.”

In life, death and that which came after, Wilbur had always been a musician.

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Taglist: @fruitpilled @zrenia @spaceheatertrash @waitblues @kinda-late-but-here-though @icyisweird @boomybelovd @thatfriendlyanon @rozugold

#dream smp #crim writes #wilbur soot #techoblade #philza #tommyinnit #ghostbur #tubbo #also ash from lovejoy is here but i won't maintag him #thank you so much for reading :))#FIRST FIC OF 2023 WHOOO!!#i have literally been sitting on this idea since wilbur was resurrected. april 2021. it took me nearly two years to write this thing lmao #i really hope it came out half decent XD

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